I wanted to wish you Happy Holidays
and share for you one of my very favorite stories.

SHMILY

It is indeed, very " Good Stuff".
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SHMILY

My grandparents were married for over half a century, and
played their own special game from the time they had met
each other. The goal of their game was to write the word
"shmily" in a surprise place for the other to find. They
took turns leaving "shmily" around the house, and as soon
as one of them discovered it, it was their turn to hide it
once more.

They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar
and flour containers to await whoever was preparing the
next meal. They smeared it in the dew on the windows
overlooking the patio where my grandma always fed us warm,
homemade pudding with blue food coloring. "Shmily" was
written in the steam left on the mirror after a hot shower,
where it would reappear bath after bath. At one point, my
grandmother even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to
leave "shmily" on the very last sheet.

There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up.
Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found
on dashboards and car seats, or taped to steering wheels.
The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows.
"Shmily" was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced
in the ashes of the fireplace. This mysterious word was as
much a part of my grandparents' house as the furniture.

It took me a long time before I was able to fully
appreciate my grandparents' game. Skepticism has kept me
from believing in true love-one that is pure and enduring.
However, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship.
They had love down pat. It was more than their flirtatious
little games; it was a way of life. Their relationship was
based on a devotion and passionate affection which not
everyone is lucky experience.

Grandma and Grandpa held hands every chance they could.
They stole kisses as they bumped into each other in their
tiny kitchen. They finished each other's sentences and
shared the daily crossword puzzle and word jumble. My
grandma whispered to me about how cute my grandpa was, how
handsome an old he had grown to be. She claimed that she
really knew "how to pick 'em."

Before every meal they bowed their heads and gave thanks,
marveling at their blessings: a wonderful family, good
fortune, and each other.

But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life: my
grandmother had breast cancer. The disease had first
appeared ten years earlier. As always, Grandpa was with her
every step of the way. He comforted her in their yellow
room, painted that way so that she could always be
surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to go
outside. Now the cancer was again attacking her body. With
the help of a cane and my grandfather's steady hand, they
went to church every morning. But my grandmother grew
steadily weaker until, finally, she could not leave the
house anymore. For a while, Grandpa would go to church
alone, praying to God to watch over his wife. Then one day,
what we all dreaded finally happened. Grandma was gone.

"Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of
my grandmother's funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and
the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles,
cousins and other family members came forward and gathered
around Grandma one last time. Grandpa stepped up to my
grandmother's casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began
to sing to her. Through his tears and grief, the song came,
a deep and throaty lullaby.

Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that
moment. For knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom
the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness
its unmatched beauty.